


The Wrong Dragon

by WendyNerd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Daddy Issues, F/M, Gen, Other, Pining, Rhaegar comes back from the dead, promptfill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 13:50:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7535227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years of hiding, Rhaegar who is alive, goes North to aid in the coming war with the WW, he quickly falls for Sansa but realizes that he has a rival for her feelings in form of his son, who Sansa also has feelings for, knowing that this time he can't steal another Stark girl...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wrong Dragon

**Author's Note:**

> In an effort to post more of my promptfills online, here's a recent one!
> 
> Thanks to Dolorous Edditor for his help!

“You’re alive.”

“Yes.”

“Why? Why you, when so many others died?”

Rhaegar has no answer.

Every moment feels like a defeat, but Rhaegar continues to fight. His son, the son he risked so much for, looks at him with nothing less than disgust. Every one of his failures are reflected in those grey eyes. Lyanna’s eyes. Jon has so, so much of Lyanna in him. He’s brave and strong and willful. He thinks differently than others.

He’s not afraid to make that clear.

But Rhaegar sees himself in his son. That tragic devotion to duty.

The Silver Prince arrives at the Wall more grey than silver, more weary than dead. And he is made a ranger by his son. His Lord Commander. He has his father sleep in the barracks with the others.

Jon insists that Rhaegar bend the knee to his sister, the sister he never met. The sister who rode into Westeros on the backs of three dragons.

“You’re alive.” The look in her violet eyes make this more an accusation than a statement.

“Yes.”

“Barristan told me that you fought valiantly, nobly, and honorably. And you still died. There is perhaps less honor to that story than he believed. Perhaps it is a good thing he is not here to see the truth. I hope that after being gone for so long that you do not seek to usurp my claim.”

“What of Jon?”

“Jon supports me. You will do the same.”

Daenerys holds him in the sort of disdain that one can only hold for a fallen hero. Rhaegar knows it. It’s the attitude he acquired towards his father at the age of six. She is yet another symbol of all his idiocies, all his failures. She brought the dragons back. Her. That little creature that has grown within his mother’s womb, unknown to everyone. Now, she teaches Rhaegar’s son to ride.

His son.

Aegon is dead. So is Rhaenys. Dead with their mother. Rhaegar gets the impression that this alone is the origin of much of the resentment he receives. The Dornish forces here, led by Elia’s niece, a mannish, angry creature called Obara Sand, certainly show him little love.

It would matter less if anyone sympathized with all he did and why. What he tried to do. But intentions are words, and words are wind. These are people who deal in consequences before all.

Despite all that Rhaegar has to tell Jon, has told him, his son refuses to call himself a prince. He defers to Daenerys on royal titles.

Except in one particular case.

There’s some sort of agreement that Daenerys and Jon have made. Rhaegar isn’t sure how it works. Neither of them will disclose much to him. He may as well be dead, for all the regard they show him.

Either way, Daenerys is not the only queen. Not anymore.

This queen does not ride on dragonback. She is not on the front lines. She rules from her father’s seat in Winterfell. She is the person who shelters the civilians, provides care for the ill and wounded, keeps the snow-laden roads open and the supplies coming in. Rhaegar hears of her before he sees her. Winterfell’s Daughter. The White Walkers fall to Daenerys and Jon, they say. Winter falls to her.

He hears she shall arrive at the Wall and he cannot help but grow eager, excited. He imagines Lyanna, born again. He knows when he sees her that he’ll be transported back to that day, so long ago, when the crowds cheered and he thought he was going to save the world…

Lyanna was the sort of woman who would claim a crown in the face of three dragons. Lyanna was the woman the North, Vale, and Riverlands came together to fight for. Now those same three kingdoms fight for this Daughter of Winterfell.

The day the Queen in the North, as they call her, arrives, Rhaegar is one of the first lined up to the courtyard of Castle Black to receive her. He tries to catch his son’s eyes when the Lord Commander takes his position in the courtyard. Even Daenerys deigns to receive the woman. His sister stands beside his son, wrapped in silvery-white furs the color of her Targaryen hair, giving the illusion that the fur is her own. Jon, meanwhile, is black from head to toe. Except… Rhaegar notes something in his eyes. Something unusual. Something non-morose.

The gates open and a hooded figure, draped in grey furs and midnight velvet, rides in at the head of a large retinue mostly consisting of supply carts. Rhaegar catches sight of a flash of red hanging out from the hood. Everyone but Daenerys kneels. Everyone but Daenerys and Jon, who hurries forward to help the figure dismount.

She lets him. Rhaegar is surprised by this. Lyanna, up until she was heavy with child, laughed at any man who sought to help her off her horse. Lyanna was practically half-horse, and always dismounted with a wistful reluctance. But from the way this woman shifts her weight and relaxes when her boots touch the snow-covered ground, she seems relieved.

She allows Jon to keep his hands on her arms as she lowers her hood. A river of red silk tumbles out about her shoulders. She kisses his cheek and hugs him. Jon’s chin rests on her shoulder, facing Rhaegar. It’s the first time he’s seen his son look at ease.

The two queens curtsey to one another respectfully. They greet one another as… not quite friends, but well-intentioned acquaintances. Differences are to be left by the door and perhaps resumed another day, perhaps not.

And the Queen in the North turns and Rhaegar sees no Stark grey eyes or boyish cheekbones. He sees eyes the color of the wights he’s fought. He sees features as delicate and girlish as the portrait of Queen Naerys he used to gaze at as a child.

But he does see Lyanna’s lips, and Lyanna’s iron, albeit somewhat altered.

She shocks him by approaching him after a quick word with Daenerys and Jon, who reluctantly point her to him. The crowd parts as she comes near. Rhaegar gets to his feet, surprised. She bears little resemblance to Lyanna, but she carries with her the majesty he always imagined his Lady Love acquiring after a few years in King’s Landing.

“You are truly Rhaegar Targaryen?” She asks him, after oddly polite introductions are made.

“I am, Your Grace.”

“I heard that once you played and sang a song so tragic and beautiful that it caused my Aunt Lyanna to descend into tears. If you are truly Rhaegar Targaryen, you can do the same for us tonight. I have had a harp brought with me. I hope you have retained all of your fingers? Many of the unfortunate men here lose them.”

He is stunned. Lyanna used to demand that he play. He smiles. “Yes, Your Grace.”

He feels, for the first time since he arrived at the Wall, like he’s wanted. Not just for his arm and steel, but for his soul. So, prior to supper in the Great Hall, he tries his best to look more silver than grey. He wears his finest blacks.

He caresses the strings of the harp— plain though it is— like an old friend. It has none of the gold or mother-of-pearl that his old harp had. But it’s sturdy instrument, well-tuned.

Perhaps he would have stumbled from lack of practice for anyone else. But he plays for her, and once again, it’s twenty years prior. The rest of the hall may be privy to his work. But he plays for her and her alone.

And tears do well in her eyes as she sits between Daenerys and Jon, though she blinks them back. And she grabs his son’s hand. She is moved and little else matters. She declares that he is indeed Rhaegar Targaryen.

Rhaegar believes it. How does she know? How can she know? How is it she, more than anyone, more than his own son, knows how to discover him, identify him, know him in the only true way?

She may have the Tully colors, but she is his Stark girl come again.

And she deserves better than this frozen wasteland. He wants nothing more than to keep her safe, keep her happy, keep her warm. Perhaps he could never have saved the world. But he wants to save her. She looked at him not as some sort of myth, or fallen hero, or exalted being. She looked at him and asked to hear his soul.

He resolves to visit her after the “banquet”, such as it is. It is no banquet. It’s the same three-meat, all-mutton stew as before. Same tasteless ale. This Queen in the North deserves roast peacock and honeyed cakes and that egg dish from Dorne that Elia introduced him to. She has some of the same sweetness Elia did, he can tell. She may be the Queen of Winter, but he feels nothing but warmth from her. Elia had that.

His sister and son obviously have no use for him. No time for him. Why should he not take this beautiful creature away from all of this ugliness? Keep her safe, the way he failed to do with Lyanna. But not this time.

So he finds out where her quarters are— His son at least has the decency to put her in the newly refurbished tower, just below Daenerys’s rooms. They’re as fine as any can expect from Castle Black.

But she isn’t there when he knocks. Terror strikes him. The Watch is full of criminals— thieves, murderers, rapers. Someone has taken her. Someone has taken his Stark lady. Could it be Daenerys?

He panics. Then he cringes. He knows what he must do. Following Jon’s lead and maintaining avoidance between father and son had worked thus far. But now it does not. Jon will looks for her, tirelessly. He was raised alongside her, like a brother. He will care for her safety.

He hurries to the Lord Commander’s quarters and pounds his fist against the door.

There’s a shout to “Piss off”, he wants to throttle his son. He can ignore his father all he likes, but not at the cost of Sansa’s safety.

“Jaehaerys Targaryen, you will come to this door!”

There is a rumbling sound. The door swings open. He greets a grey-eyed glare. His son is disheveled, disrobed even. A tunic hangs loosely on him, exposing his collarbone and much of his chest.

“What in the Seven Hells did you call me?”

“My name for you, if you’d turned out to be a boy,” explains Rhaegar quickly.

“Don’t ever call me that again. I’m Jon. And what do you think you’re doing here, Ranger?”

He would normally feel a fool but there are more important things happening. “The queen is missing, you fool!”

This, at least, makes the young man do a double-take. “Daenerys?! How do you know?!”

“Not Daenerys!” He scowls. “It’s probably Daenerys in there with you! No! Queen Sansa!”

Jon relaxes somewhat and cups his temple. “Daenerys is not my lover, and I assure you, Sansa is fine.”

“She isn’t in her quarters, you fool! So unless you know where else she might be—” Then he stops. It dawns on him. “You… You dare lay your hands on her?!”

“Excuse me, Ranger?!”

“You’re sworn to the Night’s Watch! You have denied your birthright! You have nothing to offer her!” Rhaegar hisses, disgusted. “Is this what Ned Stark taught you?!”

He finds his son’s face inches from his. “Don’t you ever dare say a word about that man. You’re unworthy to even speak his name. Now get out. And if you say a word to anyone, I’ll have you flogged.”

Then it’s the door in his face.  

It is clear once more that he cannot say a word to his son.

So he instead arranges a chance to speak to Lady Stark alone. He volunteers, when the time is right, to escort her to the top of The Wall and observe the snowy expanse that lies beyond.

“It’s hard to believe,” she says, staring out at the stunning view, free strands of her braided red hair blowing around and teasing her face, “that an enemy so horrifying could be marching upon us from so beautiful a place.”

“Aye,” he nods as he says this, “I’ve been trying to compose a song about it.”

“I think you’d be uniquely qualified to pay tribute to such a subject. There are few men left who have seen the battles themselves who can craft a ballad.”

Rhaegar smiles sadly. “I’m glad the idea pleases you. You seem to have a great appreciation for singers.”

Her smile falters slightly. “I used to. I had… a poor experience, with a singer. But he was a complete wastrel. I try not to judge them all.”

“I have more to offer than songs, I hope. I like to think I am only partly a wastrel, but not a complete one.”

She chuckles at this. “I suppose I will have to wait and see.”

“Your Grace…” he says now, trying to choose his words carefully, “I hope you are… Guarding yourself from those who might use you. Those who have little to nothing to offer you.”

Her head turns to face him, her smile gone. “And here I thought I would have to be the one to broach the subject. Why do I get the feeling you put as much effort into arranging this encounter as I did?”

Rhaegar is surprised. He supposes, now that he thinks on it, that he, a lowly ranger, openly despised by the Lord Commander, would get a chance to speak to the Lord Commander’s lover privately. As crown prince he could speak to anyone he wished, arrange whatever he wanted with ease. But that is no longer the case. He is no longer royalty with people to obey his every command. She is.

He reddens. “I did. I wanted to—”

“—Warn me, the silly little maiden, to stop compromising her virtue with your son? What was it you said to him? That he had ‘nothing to offer’? I heard everything, you see, Rhaegar. And even if I hadn’t, Jon would have told me.”

She faces him fully now, her expression impassive. “Do not mistake my youth for inexperience or my choices for naivete. What is this ‘nothing’ Jon has to offer me? No lands? No titles? No proper name to give me? I have a kingdom and titles aplenty, and my own name, as old as the Wall we stand on. What need do I have of some man’s titles or lands?”

“What of vows?” He demands, “Jon swore—”

“Yes. Vows are words. Words are wind. I do not need to hear vows in a sept or before a Heart Tree. I have been forced to make marriage vows more than once. It brought me nothing. I had little to no choice in those situations. I never felt ‘one’ with either man. Neither party meant or heeded their word. A marriage entitles a husband to assume the rights and authority of his wife’s property and titles. I have no interest in taking such a risk.”

“It also entitles your children to a proper name.”

“Tell that to Jon. You claim you wed my Aunt Lyanna, but he grew up as Jon Snow.” Sansa shakes her head. “I am queen. My word is law. Any children I have will be entitled to my name if I say so. As Jon has as much Stark blood as I do, they will be true Starks in every way. And, if need be, I can count on the support of your sister in this. I have no need of anything a husband might offer me. I have need of a man who loves me, who understands me, who helps me stay strong, who can protect me, who will be there for me until one of us dies. All of this, Jon can give me.”

“Bound to the Wall?”

She smirks. “How little you know of your own son, or the situation here, Rhaegar Targaryen. Do you honestly think, with the Others destroyed once and for all and the Free Folk welcomed into our domains, that the Watch will continue to exist as it had before?”

This was also something he had not considered. He opens his mouth to speak, but she holds up a hand. “Keep to singing your observations of the Wall and this war, Rhaegar Targaryen. I am not yours to advise. What have you, even when you had all the lands and titles in the world, offered any Stark women? What have you offered but tears, blood, and separation from those she loves?”

“I loved Lyanna,” he insists, closing his eyes solemnly.

“Perhaps. And perhaps she went with you willingly. Out of love. Or perhaps to flee from the man her father with his southern ambitions chose for her. I was offered escape from an unwanted union before. It almost worked out as horribly as it did for Lyanna. But I am not Lyanna, Rhaegar. This time, I am the one who has chosen the man I shall share my life with. I am exactly where I am meant to be, with the one I’m meant to be with. Everything I need, I have or am to have by my own actions or those of the man I love.”

“Are you sure of that?” He asks desperately, “I merely wish—”

She cuts him off again. “Just as with Lyanna, I believe your wishes have far more to do with your desires and feelings than mine. Am I wrong?”

Rhaegar hangs his head. “I have as little, even less, to offer you than my son. I do not presume to think that you could definitely be mine. But if I thought there was a chance you were willing, I’d make sure to give you all I could never give Lyanna.”

“No. Daenerys is the rightful holder of the Iron Throne. And even if she were not, it wouldn’t matter,” she replies, rather coldly, “You could be the greatest king crowned, and I would not want you as long as I have Jon. You need to stop living your life by dreams and promises, Rhaegar Targaryen. I learned that the hard way.”

Before he can reply, they are interrupted by the tell-tale clanging that meant the winch elevator had come up. The doors open, and his son walks out. Jon Targaryen hurries over to them, giving Rhaegar a derisive look.

Sansa immediately brightens and moves towards him. They meet with joined hands, and she kisses him. “It’s alright, Jon. I’ve spoken to him.”

They both look over at Rhaegar. Jon puts a protective arm about her shoulders. The Queen in the North’s pretty face is a smile with firm, resolute eyes. “I think he truly understands now. Right, Ranger?”

“Right.”

He means it when he says it. He sees it in their eyes. It’s likely Jon knew of this meeting before it happened. Perhaps his arrival was just as planned. They work together, and Jon trusted her to handle it.

The two look more natural, more alive, holding one another than they have this entire visit. He’s never quite seen his son so relaxed. Jon’s expression when he hears Rhaegar’s reply is almost forgiving.

“Good,” Jon remarks, “If you’ll excuse us, Ranger.”

They turn and walk away. Sansa leans towards Jon, visibly more relaxed even from behind. They both look oddly beautiful this way. And complete.

She is right. She is no Lyanna. Jon is no Robert Baratheon. Rhaegar is no longer the prince to whisk anyone away.

This Stark girl is not his. This wolf has found her dragon.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to send me prompts, message me on tumblr at wendynerdwrites.tumblr.com. Please mention if you want it to be show or book verse!


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